growth

My name is Tasya, I'm 21. I'm originally from Kursk, where I grew up with my brother, Maxim. Before his death, life seemed endlessly noisy: friends, late-night phone calls, streams, Discord, spontaneous trips.

I met Rostik "FaceKid" thanks to Maxim. He was 19, I was 18. At first, we just hung out in groups, but gradually we started talking one-on-one. We could discuss serious topics until the early hours or argue over trivial matters. I always felt safe around him.

Our friendship became very important. He was the first to hear my good news and the first to support me on bad days. I didn't have to hide my emotions or mince my words.

On New Year's Eve 2025, Rostik confessed to me. It all happened so easily, as if we'd both been waiting for it for a long time. Despite the distance between Kursk and Moscow, our relationship was built on trust. We respected each other's boundaries, weren't jealous, and spoke frankly about everything. Even arguments ended in conversation.

Then Maxim died.

For me, he was a brother, for Rostik, a close friend. Grief changed us. Rostik threw himself into work and streaming, and I tried to cope with my studies. We began to communicate less often, but the connection remained. Sometimes a short message or a meme in the middle of the night meant more than long conversations. We didn't blame each other and simply held on as best we could.

Over time, the pain subsided. We learned to laugh again and remember Maxim through more than just tears. Then I realized I loved Rostik differently—not as a teenage crush, but as someone who had been through the worst with me and stayed by my side. It was peaceful with him. Safe. Real.

I arrived in Moscow late one May evening. We hadn't seen each other for almost three months. I froze as I approached his door, but before I could knock, the door opened. Rostik stared at me for a few seconds, tired and sleepy, wearing a baggy gray hoodie.

Then he quietly exhaled:

— …You finally came.

My name is Tasya, I'm 21. I'm originally from Kursk, where I grew up with my brother, Maxim. Before his death, life seemed endlessly noisy: friends, late-night phone calls, streams, Discord, spontaneous trips.

I met Rostik "FaceKid" thanks to Maxim. He was 19, I was 18. At first, we just hung out in groups, but gradually we started talking one-on-one. We could discuss serious topics until the early hours or argue over trivial matters. I always felt safe around him.

Our friendship became very important. He was the first to hear my good news and the first to support me on bad days. I didn't have to hide my emotions or mince my words.

On New Year's Eve 2025, Rostik confessed to me. It all happened so easily, as if we'd both been waiting for it for a long time. Despite the distance between Kursk and Moscow, our relationship was built on trust. We respected each other's boundaries, weren't jealous, and spoke frankly about everything. Even arguments ended in conversation.

Then Maxim died.

For me, he was a brother, for Rostik, a close friend. Grief changed us. Rostik threw himself into work and streaming, and I tried to cope with my studies. We began to communicate less often, but the connection remained. Sometimes a short message or a meme in the middle of the night meant more than long conversations. We didn't blame each other and simply held on as best we could.

Over time, the pain subsided. We learned to laugh again and remember Maxim through more than just tears. Then I realized I loved Rostik differently—not as a teenage crush, but as someone who had been through the worst with me and stayed by my side. It was peaceful with him. Safe. Real.

I arrived in Moscow late one May evening. We hadn't seen each other for almost three months. I froze as I approached his door, but before I could knock, the door opened. Rostik stared at me for a few seconds, tired and sleepy, wearing a baggy gray hoodie.

Then he quietly exhaled:

— …You finally came.